


Run, You Better Run

by taekiab



Series: Like a Melody [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Fluff, Future Fic, Like kind of a lot of angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-05 00:47:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taekiab/pseuds/taekiab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Stiles is hurt while battling a rival pack, Derek flees to New York in order to keep him safe. However, some scars aren't so easily healed and some people just make it under your skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How Am I Gonna Say Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> To set the scene: This is the summer after the pack's junior year of college. Derek and Stiles have been together since sophomore year of college. However, this is their first big battle in that time.

**June 2017**

When Derek remembers the nights events, he was the one to convince Stiles to come out that night, to leave his jeep up at the Hale house and go for a drive late at night. He was the one that chose the secluded bit of forest that he thought was safe from whatever was happening, from the pack that had invaded their territory, and he was one to choose the winding road they take back up to the house which obscured the truck from view until it was too late.  
  
Of course, in reality it’s Stiles’s idea. He pulls Derek out against his will, against his instincts to keep a low profile. It’s romantic, there’s a full moon, the stars are twinkling, Stiles just wants to go sit on top of the Camaro in the woods. He’s sure it’s clear, double checked the maps. He’s even taken the precaution of telling the rest of the pack where they’re going in case anything goes wrong. It’ll be a harmless bit of fun. And everything’s been so doom and gloom, we need to have fun. So Derek really had very little to do with the fact that they were speeding around the corner of the highway, on a full moon.  
  
Okay, he was the one driving.  
  
Everything slows down as Derek senses the truck barrelling towards them around the the bend in the road. Stiles panics, pulling the steering wheel, as Derek turns towards the woods, but it’s a futile effort, the black SUV hits the the Camaro directly on the drivers side, the force of the impact and the turn sends the car spiraling over itself. Derek rips his seatbelt off scrambling to brace Stiles from the impact, willing the car to land on his side. It lands teetering on the passengers side before flipping down. Derek’s bruises and breaks are already starting to heal. The cuts from shattered glass across Stiles’s face are not.  
  
“Stiles,” he whispers. Staring over at him. Stiles nods softly, he’s okay, alive, just a little banged up. He starts to move his arm and winces in pain. Derek shoots him a fearful eye.  
  
“It’s not, it’s not broken, just --,” he pulls it free of his body. “Aah fuck, it hurts. It might be broken. I’m okay,” he says puffing out breaths, reaching up with his left hand to wipe away the blood on his head.  “What the fuck was that?” Stiles asks looking around. Derek places a finger to his mouth. He’s trying to listen. He can hear people talking, cackling off in the distance.  
  
“It’s the other pack,” Derek says solemnly.  
  
“Couldn’t just be random vehicular violence?” Stiles grumbles laying his head on the dashboard. “What do we do?”  
  
“Can you run?” Derek asks looking at the door. When Stiles nods, Derek reaches over him and pushes the door open, the bent metal frame scraping against the door. “You have to get back to house, get your jeep. You have to tell the pack that the -- that they’ve taken me.” At that Stiles’s eyes widen.  
  
“No, no, you can’t --,” Stiles starts, but Derek cuts him off.  
  
“If you don’t run they’ll take both of us, there’s no reason for them to keep you alive Stiles.”  
  
“Then, then we both run,” Stiles offers pleading.  
  
“Then they’ll chase us, Stiles,” Derek says staring at him, the unspoken and they’ll catch us hanging in the air. “There’s only one way this goes. You have to run.”  
  
“Give me your phone,” Stiles says and Derek looks at him questioningly. “They’re coming, right? Give - give me your phone.” Stiles flips through the phone quickly enacting the GPS and copying down some numbers. The rogue pack is getting close enough or loud enough that even Stiles can hear them. “Keep this on you for as long as you can,” he says slipping the phone into Derek’s pants pockets. “I love you,” he says grabbing Derek’s face and kissing him. “Don’t die before I can find you.”  
  
“Stiles, no,” Derek says, eyes wild. “Go to the house, get your jeep, tell the others, then go to the hospital, go home. Do not come after me. Stay safe,” Derek pleads, and Stiles nods. Derek pushes open his own door and heads off toward the werewolves, as Stiles starts running as fast as he can, holding his broken arm against himself. He has to make it to the jeep before anyone comes after him.  
  
Stiles can hear the screams and flesh tearing as he races through the woods. He’s not sure how long he’s been running when the trees start to thin, but the Hale house stands like a beacon as he closes in on his car. He whips the door open and jumps in, hands trembling as he places the key in and calls Scott.  
  
“They’ve got Derek,” he says in a panic, the rest of the story tumbling out of his mouth in quick emphatic lines, tripping over each other. “I don’t know where yet, call the others, I’ll have a location in five minutes,” he says hanging up. He pulls over on the side of the road and reaches back to pull out his computer. He pulls it open, clicking the keys rapidly, blood and sweat dripping off on the keyboard.  Once he has the location he quickly calls Scott again.  
  
“They’re in a warehouse just past the city limits. I’m sending you the location. It’s so close to here Scott they must’ve known,” Stiles said fear seeping into his every word and his voice trailing off.  
  
“Wait for us, Stiles. You can’t go in there alone,” Scott says. Stiles can hear them pulling out in the car in the background, but he can’t.  
  
“I can’t just do nothing,” Stiles says ending the call before Scott can respond. Stiles places his head down on his steering wheel, his breath haggard from the pain in his arm, he was starting to lose feeling in his fingers and forearm. He takes a quick look at the damage before pulling his spare shirt out of his bag. Okay, okay, this is going to hurt he thinks to himself taking a few quick breaths before squeezing around his forearm trying to get the blood flowing, shoving the splintering pieces of himself back in place and tying the shirt around it. It hurt like hell, but he could feel his fingers again, as he tightened them into a fist and let the arm drop to his side. He shook his head and pressed on the gas, heading straight for the warehouse.  
  
When he arrives at the location it’s barely a warehouse, a small smattering of buildings rusted and dilapidated, with holes here and there in the walls. He has no plan, knowing that any way he could sneak up on them the werewolves would hear, that any weaponry he would fish out from his trunk, the hunters among them would have bigger guns. His only hope was, well, pure human stupidity. He grabbed one of the guns Allison had given him from under his car seat. He turned his car towards the large building that the cell phone signal had told him Derek was in somewhere and pressed his feet to the gas barreling through the wall.  
  
The wheels screeched as he drove into one, two, three werewolves before slamming on the breaks. He could see Derek near the other side of the werewolf hanging off a crate lifelessly and his heart began to rage in his chest. He held the gun with his left hand, racing towards the crate. Derek’s eyes opened blankly as Stiles approached and Stiles let out a deep breath, placing his hand on Derek’s face, looking him over before leaning in to kiss him quickly.  
  
He hoisted Derek to his feet, noticing the unhealed cuts and gashes. He pulled Derek’s arm around his shoulders moving towards the car as two new wolves came up from behind them. Derek turned his head back looking behind them, claws lengthening in defense. Stiles just kept moving, dragging Derek forward they were so close, but the other wolves were faster. He could feel Derek tense, starting to turn, his claws moving across Stiles’s shoulder as he was ripped away by one of the wolves. Stiles winced from the pain before turning to the car. He reached in, flicking on his high beams, temporarily blinding the wolf coming at him. He scurried around them heading after Derek, relief flooding him as he heard other cars pulling up to the warehouse, the pack arriving and racing into the fight. He just had to find him again, Stiles thought moving around the crates and machinery.  
  
“Here human boy,” the wolf who’d taken Derek called. “I have your toy. More of a rag doll than a wolf,” he continues, the voice echoing against the walls. “I could slit his throat now, and look you’ve called my new pack to me.” Stiles hurried towards the voice. “But I’m just supposed to be watching him -- Alpha’s rules,” it continues laughing. “Watch him die slowly.”  
  
When Stiles fihe gun from his pants, ands them the wolf is sitting off in a corner next to Derek’s body, a syringe cast off to the side. The wolf stands and moves to attack Stiles, claws lengthening and fangs showing, but Stiles is quicker, pulling and squeezing the trigger three times.  
  
“We know a few hunters too,” Stiles says stepping over the body of the wolf to Derek who looks up at him groggily. Stiles quickly surveys the damage as he listens to the commotion in other areas of the warehouse, even without werewolf hearing he can make out Scott and Boyd at least shouting directives at the others. “HERE GUYS,” Stiles shouts before breaking open the syringe to investigate whatever they had been pumping Derek full of. He could definitely smell the sickly floral scent of the wolfsbane. He reached down, taking a deep breath, always left over wolfsbane he sighs breaking Derek’s fingers. Derek winced at that but his breathing grew stronger and more clear. In a few more minutes, he’d be strong enough to help the others. Stiles wrapped his hand around Derek’s, waiting. Derek tensed suddenly, eyes widening.  
  
“Stiles, go, run,” he said leaning up on his elbows. To which Stiles whipped his head around. He could see a pair of red eyes in the distance moving closer to them.  
  
“No, you can’t,” Stiles started, standing and pulling the gun again. Derek made it to his feet a second too late as another wolf came from behind. Suddenly the sound of chains and rusted metal scraping against itself filled the air, and the last thing Stiles saw taking his eyes off of the approaching Alpha and whipping around was the fear in Derek’s eyes as the steel hook crashed into him, knocking him to the ground in single blow.

 

*****

Derek found his way into the hospital room every night, pass the cameras and night guards, he held Stiles’ hand and prayed to whatever it is werewolves pray. Well, for the first week he prayed. The second and third weeks he cursed and demanded, overturned chairs and was escorted off the premises once or twice. The fourth week he was silent as the grave, a stone statue in the corner of Stiles’s hospital room. On the first day of the fifth week, Stiles awoke with a start, coughing and gagging, choking around his intubation tube, eyes flashing wide with fear, twisting and pulling the cords all around him.  
  
Derek who had been so close to death himself time and time again, who had lost his entire family in a blaze and had nightmares for months after, who had been chained to a steel gate, had never been more afraid than he was in that moment. The fear rocketed through him like an electrical current as doctors and nurses rushed into the room, the machines beeped wildly, ripping things away and pumping Stiles full of something. It was his worst day in recent memory, but it was also the best, it was the day they found out Stiles was going to live, and the day he decided he couldn’t wait any longer. He left the hospital and didn’t step foot back in it for a week.  
  
“Haven’t seen you here in a while,” the Sheriff says pointedly.  
  
“I uh, had something to take care of,” Derek says.  
  
“So, it’s taken care of?” he asks.  
  
“Yes sir,” Derek answers. They each stay there in silence for a while before Derek adds. “I’m, I’m going to be leaving,” he says. He’s not sure why at first, but somehow he needs someone to hear his plan before he goes through with it.  
  
“Leaving?” the Sheriff repeats.  
  
“I think it’s for the best. Too many werewolves in this town. As long as there’s an Alpha here it’ll just attract more, more danger, more of this,” he says looking over at Stiles’s chest moving slowly up and down. Derek can barely get the words out, but there they are, the truth.  
  
“I will not lie to my son for you,” the Sheriff said sternly looking down on Derek where he sat. “I know that you two -- I know that you’re important to him.”  
  
“I wouldn’t --,”  
  
“Be sure. If you’re thinking about leaving, Hale, be very sure,” the Sheriff says. “And then never come back.”  
  
“Yes,”  
  
“Hell I don’t know, you’re probably right, and if leaving will keep him safe then get out of my town,” the Sheriff starts. “But werewolf or not, you break my sons, and you come back, I will hunt you down and drag you out to the middle of nowhere and put a full round between your teeth,” he finishes his eyes piercing.  
  
“Yes,” Derek says standing to leave.  
  
“I will not see him hurt,” he chokes out. “I will not see him hurt again if I can do something about it. Do you understand me?” he shouts to Derek, at Derek, to no one at all, all of the anger and powerlessness he’d felt seeping out.  
  
“Yes, sir,” Derek says his eyes downcast as he moves to exit the room. One final glance back at the boy all pale skin and freckles lying peacefully in bed.  
  
When he reached the elevator he clenched the frame, knuckles white, split seconds from turning around. But he was the thing that went bump in the night, the thing that Dads had to protect their sons from, he knew this, felt it intimately. He didn’t think about the actual words the Sheriff had said, the threat was clear, and his decision was made anyway. Derek was leaving Beacon Hills.  
  
Stiles remained unconscious for another three days. His doctors argued for keeping him under longer, his dad listened to opinion after opinion, and finally the team supervising his condition agreed that any longer risked brain damage much worse than the physical damage. He would have to heal the rest of the way, awake.  
  
“Hey buddy,” his Sheriff Stilinksi said, his eyes glossing over, as he smiled at his son.  
  
“Dad?” Stiles asked groggily, moving his head from side to side.  
  
“How are you feeling?” his dad asked.  
  
“I --,” Stiles said, taking in the room, the wires, reaching feeling the bandages covering his chest, the cast on his arm. “Hungover?” he said with a small smile.  
  
“I wish,” his dad said chuckling. “You gave us a bit of a scare,” he finished.  
  
“I know, I --,” Stiles says, but his mind wanders, looking for something or someone. “I don’t really remember,” he offers eyes apologetic. Fear stretches across the Sheriff’s face. “I mean, I remember that night. I remember --,” he takes another careful pause. “I remember driving with Der -- Where’s Derek? Oh god, is he okay? Where is he? Dad?” He says eyes wide with panic, whipping his head around, leaning up, the cords tugging at his skin threatening to come out.  
  
“Derek’s fine son,” the Mr. Stilinski offers, placing a hand on Stiles’s shoulder, easing him back down in the bed. “We shouldn’t talk about this right now, you don’t have to remember. It’s okay,” he says.  
  
“How long have I been in here?” Stiles asked hesitantly.  
  
“Six weeks,” his dad answers. Six WEEKS, Stiles thinks. That’s not a bit of a scare, that’s cardiac arrest. He thought of Derek tearing apart any and everything he could get his hands on, his dad sitting alone at the dinner table, the rest of the pack being in danger and he kicked himself.  
  
“Okay,” he said looking away from his dad. He could hear commotion gathering in the hallway, but he’d lost the energy to be curious, he just wanted to go back to sleep and wake up when Derek was here so he could apologize for this whole mess, find out if they’d gotten rid of the invading pack, get back to normal.  
  
“I may have let slip to Lydia that you were waking up today,” the Sheriff started looking back towards the door. “Do you think you’re up for visitors? I can send them away,” he added.  
  
“No, it’s cool,” Stiles says twisting around and perking up. At that, the whole pack came streaming into the room, he was pretty sure that having five excitable werewolves and girlfriends in the room at one time was against some hospital policy, but he was really excited to see them, to see they were all whole and okay and no one had done anything stupid while he was sleeping. Everyone just kind of stared at him for a moment, then Scott and Isaac both reached out at the same time, Scott placing a hand gingerly on his leg, Isaac resting his palm on Stiles’s shoulder.  
  
“You are absolutely not allowed to do anything so incorrigibly stupid ever again Stiles. You almost died, literally, right here, in this bed,” Lydia burst out angrily, pointing down at him. “You don’t care about getting hurt, fine. But someone once told me that death doesn’t happen to you, Stiles, it happens everyone around you, to all of the people left standing at your funeral. Remember,” she finished, crossing her arms over her self.  
  
“Wahoah,” Stiles said with a smirk. “Still in the hospital bed here Lyds.”  
  
“I just meant --,” she starts. The tension in the room mounting a bit, everyone feeling uncomfortable and out of place.  
  
“I think the guy two rooms down from here got what you meant,” he jokes. “And you’re right, I’m sorry,” he says opening his arms for her. She slowly makes her way to him from her place at Jackson’s side. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. It breaks the tension, everyone else carries on like normal, teasing Stiles for the accident, calling him sleeping beauty or little red (for almost being eaten by the big bad wolves), they laugh and share stories of the last six weeks, everyone carefully avoiding mentioning Derek, even in stories Stiles is sure must’ve revolved around him. They talk about how the other pack has been taken care with most of them ripped limb from limb, never mentioning the Alpha’s role. This must be bad Stiles thinks, if no one will talk about it, Derek must really be a mess.  
  
Once everyone finally cleared out, he sent a text message to Derek, telling him that the room was all clear, he could show his broody face without having to deal with balloons or cheery nurses. He dozed off waiting for the reply, waking up somewhere in the middle of the night. He noticed a piece of paper sitting on the table beside him that he was sure wasn’t there before. He recognized it immediately, a half page jaggedly ripped from the cream colored sketchpad he’d bought Derek earlier that summer.  
  
The note was simple on three lines:

_We found the pack again. They’re gone._

_I’m going back to New York. Don’t follow me._

_You’ll be safe now._

_D_

  
Stiles wasn’t sure he’d read it correctly at first, but he quickly dropped the note, as if distance could make him un-read it, as if having not read it could make it somehow untrue. He let it sink in, before quickly picking up his phone to call. Something about the sound of the recorded message on the other end of the line tore at him deeper than the note itself. The number or code you have dialed is incorrect, please check the number or code and dial again. He listened to the sharp tones of the operator over and over again. Of course this was Derek’s number, Stiles’s fingers knew the number better than his brain. He dialed it long form because it was easier than finding Derek in his contacts. It was a number he had dialed in his sleep, whispering breathless secrets into the telephone. He laughed at himself, chuckled even as the tears started to form in his eyes, he turned to his side and let the tears fall, gripped with a painful uncertainty. Where is he? Is he okay? Why would he leave me? and many other questions danced in his head as sleep came on swift wings and he drifted away.

 

*****

  
Stiles spends another week sitting around the hospital, the first half of the week he pesters every member of the pack about Derek until finally Isaac, cornered in the room with Stiles alone, snaps.  
  
“Jesus fucking Christ, Stiles, shut up already,” Isaac blurts out.  
  
“Uh--,” Stiles starts.  
  
“How many times can we say we don’t know? I don’t know where exactly he is or if he’s coming back. No, I don’t have any way to get in touch with him either. No, he didn’t actually talk to me, he told Boyd and Scott he was leaving and to look out for the rest of us,” Isaac lists.  
  
“Okay,” Stiles says defeated.  
  
“And I don’t know how he could do it,” Isaac continues. “It would kill me, being that far away for even this long.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“God Stiles,” he says. “You ever wonder why we’re so territorial?”  
  
“Uhm,” Stiles says contemplatively.  
  
“It’s not like we want to metaphorically piss on your rug,” he says. “It’s like -- it’s exactly like being away from home, it’s like missing the place not just the people, missing that sense of comfort that you get from the things you know, but multiplied by werewolf.”  
  
“I didn’t --,”  
  
“The first week I was at USF, freshman year, do you remember it?”  
  
“I mean, you called a few times...” Stiles says thinking back. “You were home sick, whatever.”  
  
“I was huddled in the corner of my room for 5 days, my roommate thought I was crazy, I thought I was crazy,” Isaac states.  
  
“Yeah, but you got through it,” Stiles offers.  
  
“After driving to Berkley in the middle of the night, and sleeping on your floor for two days,”  
  
“Yeah, but --,” Stiles starts.  
  
“I’m just saying, you’re not the only person hurting here and you weren’t the only person left,” Isaac says a mixture of exhaustion and sorrow etched across his face. “And just -- He did it for you, he left to keep you safe. And we don’t know anything, so can you please just stop poking us?”  
  
And he does. Stiles stops poking them, actually, he stops talking entirely, all of his worry and frustrating turned inward. The second half of the week is filled with people coming in, saying comforting phrases he wouldn’t be able to remember for the life of him, and him lying on his side, looking away from them, gazing out the window next to him. When he’s finally discharged, his dad helps him to the car, looking contemplatively at his ghost like expression. They drive in silence to the house, and as they’re getting out of the car John looks over at Stiles, patting his leg gingerly.  
  
“It’s going to be okay, son,” he says full of warmth and hope. Stiles chuckles to himself a bit remembering back to the day years and years ago when he’d been sitting in this exact same position and looked up at the Sheriff’s blank face and gave the same worthless comfort. It’s going to be okay, daddy. God, what did that nine year old know about okay. But he shook himself out of it, running his hands over his face.  
  
“Yeah, dad,” he said getting out of the car.

 

*****

  
He lay in bed for a week, sneaking down to the kitchen once a day to feed himself, leaving notes around the house so his dad would know that he was alive. He avoided everyone as much as he could, turning on the shower and sitting on the bathroom floor, head in his hands whenever someone came over to see him, waiting until they gave up and left. He could’ve kept it up for the next two weeks until he went back to school if it wasn’t for Lydia, always so much more clever than Stiles. She gave him his week, but at the end of it, she showed up at his house holding cue cards for his dad. Stiles started to head to the shower when he heard the knock at the door, but waited listening to the exchange downstairs.  
  
Mr. Stilinski opened the door and started to welcome her in when she through a finger up over her lips, angling her head upwards. He nodded and looked down at the cards and read “I’m sorry, we’re not interested,” as Lydia squeezed in to the door making as little noise as she could. She then added, camouflaging her voice a bit “Thanks for your time sir,” before flipping the cards to the one that read Close the door.    
  
The sheriff smiled at her theatrics and gave her a squeeze on the shoulder and an encouraging nudge towards the steps before heading back to the television. When Lydia reached Stiles’s bedroom he was laying in the bed face down, teeth gripping the pillow, to mute the sobs coming from him. His body was shaking a bit as he gripped the pillow. He didn’t hear her as she crossed the room and took a seat on his bed, placing her hand on his arm. He flinched in surprise from the touch and turned around.  
  
“No,” he said, his tired bloodshot eyes barely able to focus on her. “Please go away Lydia,” he begged.  
  
“No,” she said matter-of-factly, rubbing her hand across his back.  
  
“Lydia, stop it,” he says his voice mangled with grief. “Just, look, just go away,”  
  
“Absolutely not,” she said. “Move over,” she says kicking off her shoes and joining him in the bed. They lay like that for a few minutes, Stiles’s eyes never focusing on Lydia’s and Lydia staring directly back at Stiles, waiting.  
  
“He’s never coming back,” Stiles muttered to her.  
  
“No,” she said sadly.  
  
“How --,” Stiles started, the words getting caught. “How could he just go?” Stiles asked. “This hurts so much. I couldn’t -- I don’t understand.”  
  
“I know,” she says dragging her hand through his hair.  
  
“I guess he’s always been stronger than me,” Stiles said barely above a whisper.  
  
“Not at all,” She said smiling.  
  
“I just, god, how could he do this to me?” He asked. “In what twisted werewolf world is not being here better?” He continued more strongly. “How could he do this?”  
  
And there it was, under the sadness, the loneliness, the worry and heartbreak, there was Stiles’s anger. Compared to the pain of everything else, the anger was nice, comforting, strong, a bit heady, and if he let himself think about it, it reminded him of Derek.  
  
“I don’t know,” Lydia responded shaking her head and turning over to stare at the ceiling.  
  
“Who the fuck does he think he is?” Stiles asked to no one in particular, moving over on his back as well. “You don’t do this. God he’s so full of shit, like fine, I guess he never loved me, but don’t be an asshole,”  
  
Lydia almost contradicted him, almost corrected, almost stood up for Derek. However, she wasn’t a werewolf, she felt no allegiances to the Alpha and these were the type of careful calculations that best friends made, letting you live in the comfort of your lie.  
  
“Yeah,” she said nodding at him. “He’s a coward Stiles, and he’s never going to get over this,” she says taking his hand. “But you’re better than this, and way better than the gross lump I found in this bed,” she says giving his hand a squeeze and a smile. Stiles nodded and started to get up, he pulled his towel down a little too hard, used a little too much force when opening his dressers, the anger still sparking inside of him, sending electricity through his fingertips.  
  
“I’ll see you later, okay,” he offered before heading out of his room. Once in the shower he leaned against the corner, covering his eyes and slamming his fist against the tile on the wall. He flexed his hand, looking down at the knuckles that were definitely going to bruise before taking a few deep breaths and moving through the motions of actually showering, of regaining some semblance of normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is taken from "Let me Go" by Chris Kane which kind of inspired the whole fic. However, it's been so long since that iteration you probably can't still see the references. My first stab at it had Stiles in a pick-up, 'nuff said. Also this was originally chapter 3 (not 1), so it kind of begs for prequel and if people like it enough, I might write one.


	2. Aha Listen to the Engine Whine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-betad.

**April - October 2018**

Stiles is sitting in the library next to a girl with short dark hair pulled back into a ponytail when his phone starts to vibrate in his pocket. He pulls it out, checking the caller ID before he sighs heavily. He starts to walk out and turns back to the girl, five minutes okay he mouths before heading out of the building.  
  
“Heya Stiles,” Scott says cheerily when Stiles answers.  
  
“You know, this is getting a bit ridiculous,” Stiles replies.  
  
“What’s getting ridiculous?” Scott asks feigning ignorance.  
  
“You guys are worst than my dad,” Stiles starts. “I don’t need a weekly pack check-in. Also, could you guys consolidate or something? I’ve basically had hour-long conversations every day of the week for the last two months.”  
  
“Well, Lyd--,” Scott starts, but is cut off.  
  
“Aha, so Lydia is the one corralling the troops?” Stiles says accusatorily.  
  
“Well, no, I didn’t,” Scott begins then thinks better of it. “Dude, don’t tell her I told you. She will kill me.” Stiles laughs at that, imagining the creative ways Lydia could make Scott’s life a living hell.  
  
“I won’t tell her if you get everyone to back off a bit,” he says.  
  
“Yeah, the girls are just worried about you,” Scott offers, with a little too much emphasis on the girls.  
       
“I know, and I get it and I appreciate it.” Stiles says, finding a bench to sit on. “And this winter was hard, being home was really weird and I know everyone could sense it, but like I’m not strung out with grief or anything.”  
  
“Yeah man --,”  
  
“And my roommates are already trying to figure out if someone back home died or something,”  
  
“Okay, bu --,”  
  
“And I know that Derek’s not coming back, and it’s cool. I’m Mr. Moving On over here.”  
  
“Yeah, I’ll --,”  
  
“No seriously Scott, I’m tot--,”  
       
“STILES,” Scott finally yells into the phone.  
  
“Woah, what?” Stiles says taken off guard.  
  
“I’ve been trying to agree with you for like the last five minutes dude,” Scott says starting to laugh. “I’ll ask Allison to call it off or whatever they do.”  
  
“Thanks man, how are things with Allison?” Stiles asks.  
  
“Well she’s right here....” Scott says and Stiles can hear a muffled Hey Stiles off in the background. “Things are really good, we’re thinking about moving in together after graduation.” At this, Stiles smiles, they chat for a good deal about things in and around Beacon Hills, the vague outline of plans everyone’s started to make for the next year and the future. For as much as he’s against getting daily calls from the pack, he has enjoyed talking to everyone more, feeling more together than they had in years. He’s so engrossed in his conversation with Scott that he doesn’t notice the girl walking up behind him, books in hand. She dropped the books on the bench as Stiles said his goodbyes.  
  
“That was more than five minutes,” she says teasingly.  
  
“Yeah, sorry, you know these calls,” he said smiling.  
  
“Your friends from home sound so great,” she says. “Mine barely email during midterms.”  
  
“Yeah,” Stiles chuckles. Midterms were never really going to be the primary priority of the pack.  
  
“I can’t wait to meet them,” she says smiling leaning in to kiss him quickly. Something tugs at his chest. Ashley was never going to meet his friends, well perhaps, but not in the way she wanted to. Stiles had already started breaking up with her in his head. A year ago, he would’ve never strung someone along like this, and something about that change in himself hurts Stiles more than anything else. Ashley’s exactly the type of normal he should be indulging in.  She had been in his classes since freshman year, they were friends but Stiles’s heart was always back in Beacon Hills so he didn’t really try too hard to connect to people. But when he came back like a ghost after that summer, she was there, and when he came back completely wrecked after winter break, she helped.  
  
He wasn’t using her as a distraction, he just wasn’t sure yet, he didn’t want to break up with her if this could be right. Or at least that’s what he told himself when his guilt started to rage.  
  
“So, I got tired of the mating rituals of early native Americans.” Stiles laughs, they’d been hitting the books pretty hard for the last week preparing for their final midterms of their undergraduate career. “I was thinking we could look into some more contemporary research,” she said coyly, capturing his lips in a kiss again.  
  
“Yeah, let’s head out,” he said grabbing the books and standing up. For a split second, he looks over her shoulder and in the shadows he swears he can see – but no, it couldn’t be and it’s best for him not to think about it. Today has been a really good day, the ever present longing had been duller than it was in months. Thinking about it was only going to bring the tugging sensation back. But he’s sure he saw, and he takes a step forward without even noticing it. Suddenly he shakes himself out of his trance. “Oh for gods sake Bella,” he mutters to himself. Ashley who’s already started heading to the car, turns around.  
  
“Did you say something, Stiles?”  
  
“No, no, coming behind you.”  
  
The next day he finishes and sends off an application for a fellowship at the New York Museum of Natural History, because it’s a prestigious opportunity that his professor suggested to him personally and wrote him a recommendation for, not because he saw a shape in the shadows that sort of looked like someone he’s not thinking about.  


 

*****

  
Derek steps out of the shadow by the library. He tries to put the anger and jealousy he felt out of his mind. This is exactly what he’d wanted for Stiles, and it’s not like he could walk up to him or anything. He’d given up that right when he left Beacon Hills, and he accepted it.  
  
The drive from New York to California was long, even for someone with his supernatural ability to stay up for days at a time. He wouldn’t get back until pretty late in the week. He was probably going to have to find a new job after just disappearing like that. He didn’t really care, it’s not like being a bouncer had been a particular career move, he just needed something to take his mind off of the dull ache and ever present desire to go home. Everything about New York had started to suck mere days after he got there, it wasn’t his territory, he was weaker being so far away from the pack, the full moons seemed worse, more ravaging. More than once he felt like he was going to lose control and fully transform.  
  
Which is when he started seeking out dingy, dangerous clubs, anything to keep himself distracted. After a while he settled into his own sort of rhythm. He stayed in the same apartment he had once shared with Laura, it connected him to this place, in a way that made it bearable to stay there, started (if mildly, if futilely) to blot out his desire to turn on his heels and head back to Beacon Hills. For the first months he slept for a few hours at a time on the floor of his empty bedroom, before he started to pull in bits and pieces to make the apartment more of an apartment. It would never feel like home.  
  
He spent those first few months wandering around the city aimlessly, eating once or twice a week, just enough to keep himself alive, but honestly the closer he was to wasting away the quieter the buzzing and tugging and the sensations that whispered Stiles against his ribcage were. Perhaps this is what he deserved for being such a reckless idiot, constantly putting the people he loved in danger for nothing more than a momentary thrill. Having Stiles at all, being with him, was selfish and stupid and maybe he hadn’t been malicious but seducing someone four years younger than him, putting him so close to danger and werewolves and hunters, the wrecked looks from the pack, the fear in Stiles’s father’s eyes, it all felt too familiar. And he couldn’t. No matter the mistakes he made in life, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t be Kate.  
  
When he made it back to New York from Beacon Hills, it was just about time for his shift to start, so he headed straight to the club, hoping his disappearing act would be forgiven.  
  
“Where the ‘ell have you been, mate,” he was greeted by the bartender as he headed through the door.  
  
“I went back to California for a day,” he said stopping in front of the man, a bit taller than him, blonde with the concave eyes of someone who spent too much time doing something.  
  
“A day, you’ve been gone over a week,” the man said curiously.  
  
“I drove,” Derek offered.  
  
“You drove to California, for a day?”  
  
“It was important,” he starts. “and planes give me a headache,” he finishes shrugging. What he meant was that pressurized compartments and constant altitude shifts made him feel like he was on the verge of transforming, and it wasn’t a great way to spend four hours, so he’d take a couple of days driving anytime.  
  
“Alright well, you’re lucky Becky’s infatuated with you. I think she’s begged Michael not to fill your position,” Nick offers.  
  
“Becky’s infatuated with every man that walks through the door,” Derek says dismissively.  
  
“Not me, brotha,” Nick counters.  
  
“Well, I did say man,” Derek jokes.  
  
“And there’s the cheeky asshole I’ve missed,” Nick says shoving Derek in the shoulder.  
  
The small jokes, the simple camaraderie, this was what his days amounted to now, hollow and mundane. After his shift he would make his way back to the empty apartment, and drink and draw until sleep claimed him in the wee hours. He would wake up sometime in the middle of the day and do it all over again. And he would never, not once, not ever think of Stiles. He would resist drawing him, so much so that he stuck to disembodied parts nowadays, hands, arms, a torso, but never complete and never Stiles. He wouldn’t, in a drunken stupor consider ripping out his own chest to stop that goddamn tugging. And he wouldn’t stumble into his car and make it past two state lines before realizing he’s driving back to Beacon Hills. Or, well, he wouldn’t do it again, that one he most certainly wouldn’t do again.  


 

*****

  
“Stiles, tell me if this reads okay,” Ashley asked shoving her laptop at him from the desk where she sat. Stiles was on his bed, elbow deep in text books. Finals had finally rolled around. The last tests and papers of his undergraduate career. It still kind of struck Stiles how old they were all getting. Time insisted on passing, constantly.  
  
He began to mutter aloud as he read the introduction to her paper “Ancient civilizations, also recognized the physiological symptoms present at the onset of romantic attraction.  Now studies attribute the euphoria of love to the levels of serotonin released in the brain. However, tribes indigenous to California believed that the “love” sensation was caused by an elevated level of consciousness and an almost supernatural bond between the couple directly affected...”  
  
“Sounds pretty good. You should probably get to the connection to modern marriages sooner, if you’re leading to the thesis here,” he offers pointing at the computer screen.  
  
“Okay. Man, could you imagine being murdered because your partner died?” She asked reading from one of the books surrounding her.  
  
“They were sacrificed,” Stiles clarified. “And I’m pretty sure Dr. Antin specified that it was done voluntarily,” he adds flipping through his notes.  
  
“So, well, then, just ritual suicide,” she says smiling looking up. “Who goes ‘oh my husband died, please kill me too’” she asks sarcastically.  
  
“I think the belief was that they could follow their partner into the afterlife and be with them there, it’s nice to think love never dies,” he says eyes staring off in the distance.  
  
“Okaaay then,” she said teasingly and throwing an eraser at him. The eraser hit him, just on the right side of his temple where his scar hadn’t quite healed perfectly. He flinched, rubbing his head.    
  
“Are you doing okay?” Ashley asked, and finally, Stiles could feel his own ritual suicide building.  
  
“I dunno, uhm,” he started, taking a deep breath. “Ashley,” he said and his tone of voice leaving no questions. It was serious, and apologetic already. Her eyes grew as she took a deep breath.  
  
“Yeah, Stiles?” She asked, studying him.  
  
“I – uh,” he started, rubbing his hand through his hair. “I decided to take the fellowship in New York.”  
  
“That’s great!” She said hoping this was the worst news to come. “I mean, it’ll be hard but it’s just for the fall, right? We can figure it out,” she offers.  
  
“I don’t know,” he starts, looking down at his hands. He struck by the fact that this is really hard, breaking up with someone. No wonder Derek did via a note. “I don’t think this is working.” For a moment all of the air is blown out of her, but she shakes it off.  
  
“What?” She says staring up at him. “What’s wrong, baby. Long distance is really not that big of a deal nowadays” she says walking over to him placing a hand on his shoulder.  
  
“Ashley, it’s not just the distance,” he says pulling away from her touch.  
  
“What, then?” She says her stance becoming more guarded.  
  
“I just, I’m sorry, it’s not --,”  
  
“you, it’s me?” She cuts in, finishing his pathetic attempt, chuckling as her eyes start to fill with tears.  
  
“No, no, I wouldn’t,” Stiles starts, and stops, thinking.  
  
“I love you,” she says, her voice trembling slightly.  
  
“I really care about you Ashley, but , I guess, I’m just not ready for a relationship right now.”  
  
“We’ve been in a relationship for FIVE MONTHS you,” she starts her anger building. “you, FUCKING ASSHOLE.”  
  
After he was sure she got the point, Stiles’s mind started to wander to the anthropological remains of mesoamerican breakups and the social mores in place when it comes to dumping someone on the eve of their finals. He couldn’t be blamed for that, it was a tough situation and his sociology of the modern family notes were just sitting there. When asked about it later, he’s not really sure how she took it, poorly he would say from the textbook that had come flying at his face. He probably shouldn’t have asked her to leave it, but it was his, and he really needed to study.  He does remember standing and apologizing as the door slammed.    


 

*****

  
Finishing finals and moving back home were pretty uneventful. The walls of his bedroom felt smaller somehow, with all the trappings of his years at Berkeley. This room, that he’d spent his childhood in, had somehow turned into a halfway home, a space he inhibited for brief periods of time before moving on to his real life.  
  
The night before he was set to fly out to New York he had a quiet dinner with his dad, full of warnings, and well wishes.  
  
“Just, be safe kid,” Stiles dad said smiling as he headed into the kitchen. Stiles followed him, bringing dishes from the table.  
  
“I will,” Stiles responded, chuckling as he added. “But, I mean really, no werewolves so what’s the worst that could happen?” To which his father pulled him into a tight hug. They’d been skillfully avoiding the topic of any werewolves for the last year. It had been quiet in Beacon Hills and there was so much wrapped up in that.  
  
“I know you will,” his father responds pulling away.  
  
“I’ll call you every week,” Stiles offers, his voice a little too urging. His dad smiles and nods, pushing him out of the kitchen towards the door.  
  
Stiles’s relationship with his dad had grown in the time since he graduated high school. It was impossible to pinpoint the exact ways, but there was a greater ease about it, and they each worried differently nowadays.  
  
The pack, had a bit of a louder sendoff in mind. They all gathered at Allison’s house since her dad was off doing something hunter-y in some place that wasn’t Beacon Hills so they weren’t terribly concerned about it. They made a bonfire, laughed and fought and talked, they reminisced, each telling stories that carefully left out a big part of their High School and early college years. And at the end of the night, they all ended up on their backs staring up at the stars.  
  
“Guys, I’ll be back by Christmas,” Stiles starts, but Lydia shakes her head. It wasn’t the time, they’d done time away from each other, each of them going away varied distances for college. It wasn’t even the distance. Lydia had gone further for MIT. It was that it’s Stiles.  
  
“Dude, who’s going to make the bacon, when we do pack breakfast?” Isaac asked quietly, contemplatively. For them all to be together without Stiles was a big deal, no matter how much he tried to shrug it off.  
  
“Well if Jackson weren’t so afraid of the grease --,” Stiles starts.  
  
“Hey man, I was burned that time,” Jackson says gruffly.  
  
“Hey man, you’re a werewolf,” Stiles pokes back.  
  
“Yeah well my Lucky jeans can’t heal so fuck off,” Jackson says turning on his side away from the pack.  
  
“Awwe poor wolfy pants,” Stiles says reaching over Erica and Lydia to pat his pants.  
  
“Seriously dude, we’re going to miss you,” Scott chirps in. “It won’t be the same.” And it wouldn’t be, and Stiles knew that going in, but he couldn’t spend all of his life in Beacon Hills just to keep the pack together. The more time he spent with the pack, the less he felt a part of it anymore. He was the guy who made the bacon, or corralled Erica, or gave Scott advice, yeah, but they were all growing up, that role wasn’t sustainable and it was just left over from another time. Eventually they were all going to grow out of him. Stiles had to figure out what the hell he was doing, what was going on, and he had to do that in New York. He held on to that truth as everyone piled on him and begged him not to go, as Allison smiled and hugged him a little too long, as Isaac followed his every move with his eyes, as Boyd stood stoic in the corner with uncertain eyes, none of them liked change, and this was a change that just about everyone saw as unnecessary, but they respected his desire to do it, and in the end, they all wished him the best time and promised to call, and try to visit. It was a good night, a great night.  
  
Lydia is the one to drive him to the airport the next morning. He rolls his eyes and laughs when she pulls up to his house.  
  
“Why is it always you?” he asks smiling.  
  
“I dunno, you found me naked in the woods this one time, and yelled at me this other. I feel a weird sense of responsibility,” she says shrugging. “Get in the car nerd.”  
  
Their drive to the airport is mostly quiet, having said goodbye to the pack the night before, Stiles isn’t really in the mood for a heartfelt goodbye, and he knows Lydia isn’t going to force him into one. As he’s leaving his car he can see she has something on her mind.  
  
“Oh, god say it,” he huffs.  
  
“Just don’t be stupid, Stilinski,” she says, her eyes very poignant and piercing in that way that only Lydia can muster.  
  
“Yeah,” he says, giving her a peck on the cheek and heading into the airport. And as he’s waiting for his plane to load he reminds himself of it don’t be stupid Stilinski.  


 

*****

  
He doesn’t start off looking for Derek. It’s not the reason he’s come to New York, it’s a very prestigious fellowship, one of the few stateside in practical Anthropology. He would be helping to research and curate great finds and able to do research using some of the widest anthropological databases in the country. He came to New York for himself. When he realizes he’s happier and more comfortable in this city than he had been anywhere in the last year, it only crosses his mind briefly that Derek could have anything to do with that. He’s loving the museum, and his new friends, and even his tiny shoebox of an apartment.  
  
However as the weeks pass, he finds himself looking around in the coffee shops he frequents, or slowing down as he turns corners. He notices himself looking, which is when he gives up, and decides it’s time to find the werewolf that broke his heart. He’s not sure what he’s going to say or what he even wants out the conversation. He just knows it needs to happen for him to get any kind of peace of mind.  
  
When he sets himself to it, it’s really not that hard to find Derek. First of all, he’s a werewolf, which means he likes his habits. Stiles limits his search to a mile radius of where Derek had told him he used to live when he went to New York the first time. Then Stiles starts looking for places that you’d walk past. The dingier a bar or restaurant, the easier it was to blend in behind the smoke and debauchery, to just melt into the walls and be seen by no one.  
  
It took him about a week, before he was sitting at the bar of a club off of East 6th and saw Derek walk in, nod at the bartender and head up the stairs. He’d found him.  


 

*****

  
It was weird, and Derek was halfway up the stairs before he’d realized what was weird, but someone here sounded like Stiles. He could hear the delicate rhythm of Stiles’s heart being strummed out by someone in that bar. He had to give it to New York, millions of people, always a new version of torture, of course eventually he would run into someone with a mixture of chemicals and personality that made their heartbeat sound like Stiles’s, Derek was just hoping it wouldn’t be today.  It had been just over a month since the gnawing, painful, tugging had quieted. It hadn’t stopped completely, but it was close enough. He’d hoped that meant Stiles and given himself over to the girl, and was happy, or something something that his body knew but his mind didn’t yet. No chance, no tugging.  
  
Of course, he was right in that. There was definitely something his body knew that his head didn’t. When the sound lasted through his entire shift and seemed like it was following him, he started to listen more carefully, trying to detect where the person was, but it was too far away. The person knew to keep their distance. Immediately, Derek wondered if it was a hunter, using Stiles’s heartbeat to drive him out. He eventually slipped on headphones, like an average New Yorker, and walked steadily home. If the hunter hadn’t attacked yet, there was a good chance they wouldn’t out on the public street. Derek took a couple of turns, and wander around his building a few times before actually heading inside, hoping to shake his tail.  
  
He walked slowly to the apartment itself, looking around as he pulled out his keys and slowly opened the door. He took a step into the apartment, leaving the door slightly ajar, prepared to pounce as the hunter slid through behind him. As soon as he heard the footsteps scurrying down his hall and slipping into the door, he pounced, pinning the man to his wall, his eyes flared red and his fangs showed. And it wass Stiles. Stiles with wide eyes and a brief flash of fear, pinned beneath the wolf. This had to be a nightmare, this was too much for even New York to conjure up , this was a figment of his imagination, his own brain fucking with him. Or at least that’s what he thought, until the figment started talking to him.  
  
“You’ve gotten sloppy,” Stiles coughed out a bit winded. “Can’t shake a tail,” he finished smirking. In that moment Derek forgot everything, where he was, how to breathe, how to stand exactly, that he was a werewolf, or a person, that the sun rose. All he remembered was Stiles, the sound of his voice, being this close, the feel of his skin, the sound of his laugh, how his eyes glowed when he was excited (or aroused). He just stood there, holding Stiles against the wall for a few seconds until Stiles cleared his throat awkwardly. Then he dropped his arms and scurried away, fumbling past his furniture.  
  
“Sti --, maybe I just knew it was you,” Derek offered.  
  
“The fact that you nearly bit your tongue off just now would suggest otherwise.”  
  
“What are you doing here?” Derek asked, eyes narrowing.  
  
“Fellowship at the Museum of Natural History, oh and confronting the love of my life, what are you doing here?” Stiles said steadily.  
  
“Stiles,” Derek said a mix between empathy and exhaustion, more of a plea than a statement.  
  
“I just wanted to make sure you still existed,” Stiles said walking over to him. He pulled a book out of his bag, leather bound, full of Stiles’s own handwriting, and handed it to him. “You should read this. Oh, and the last note I got from my boyfriend when I woke up from a coma is in there, so there’s sentimental value, don’t lose it,” he added turning to head out the door. He paused in the door frame for a minute, turning around to add “In case it’s not clear, I’ll be back. Just do me a favor and don’t run away this time.”  
  
It’s a week before Stiles shows back up at the apartment. He’d been making it to the entrance for the last three days that week and then thinking back on it. He’d used all of his confidence and bravado in the first exchange. For all he knew Derek had already skipped town, and if he hadn’t, Stiles still had no idea what he was going to say. He was all nerves and anger and bitterness, which is probably why the argument erupted as soon as Stiles stepped through the door. Stiles yelled and gesticulated wildly, his hands and entire body moving around the apartment. Derek sighed aggressively, shook his head, used minimal language. The same words. He told Stiles to leave, over and over again, begged at times, and growled it once, just once, loud enough to wake the neighbors, hell loud enough to wake the dead, the room seemed to tremble beneath the force of Derek’s plea.


	3. The Scars Remind Us That The Past Is Real

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also Un-beta'd.

Stiles turned around facing the door. Derek was sure that he’d won, that this new version of hell was going to be over, but Stiles had never been one to give up so easily.  He merely shrugged his jacket off, placing it on the table in front of him, his shoulders slouching, then squaring, the fabric of his wife beater underneath shifting just enough for Derek to see the black lines across his skin.  
        
“What is that?” Derek asked. Immediately wishing he had stayed silent, played this the way they were used to.  
        
“What? What’s what?” Stiles asked turning around, then looking over his own shoulder, down at the jacket, around the apartment a bit. It was all Derek could do not to chuckle at the display. After all this time, Stiles was still… Stiles.  
        
“Your shoulder,” he offered.  
       
“Oh, uhm,” Stiles looked away from him, his eyes clouded with equal parts guilt and embarrassment. “It’s uh – it’s nothing,” he tried to say confidently, but was met with Derek’s dark stare. The last year had definitely not lessened his ability to stare down Stiles, waiting until the younger man gave in and actually answered a question. Stiles wanted to point out how entirely unfair it was that Derek could demand answers in this situation, could ask anything of Stiles, and get it, but he thought that might be counterproductive to his reason for being there. So, with a heavy sigh, he pulled off his shirt.  
        
Derek was taken aback at this, he expected Stiles to answer with words, Stiles was all words and endless exposition. Suddenly the room was at once too big, there was too much space between Stiles’s creamy skin and Derek’s hands, and too small, all of the air gone with no way to escape, no way to get Stiles away from him, out of him, out of the darkness.  
       
“It’s a – uh tattoo,” Stiles said, turning around, causing Derek to snap back to the moment.  Seeing the whole canvas, Derek understood Stiles’s earlier stammering. He couldn’t help it, his body pulled him forward, his hand reached out and traced the tattoo. His hands fit perfectly into the four jagged marks outlined in black ink. It was an exact outline of the wound Derek had left on Stiles over a year earlier. It wasn’t until he heard himself gasp that he realized he hadn’t been breathing or speaking. He could feel Stiles’s body tense under the touch.  
        
“Wha – why?” was all Derek could ask, all Derek could think.  
        
“After a while, I dunno…” Stiles stammered turning around leaning his back against the table Derek’s hands rested on behind him. “After a while, even the scars you left were starting to fade. It was like you were never here,” he added, his hand reflexively moving to his heart, but he consciously pushed it past his chest to his shoulder awkwardly.  
        
“That’s what’s supposed to happen, Stiles.” Derek said, his rage building. “The bad things, the darkness is supposed to fade. You’re supposed to live a normal fucking life.”  
        
“I don’t want a normal life.” Stiles says point blank.  
        
“Fuck Stiles, you don’t know what you want. You’re still –“  
        
“A kid?” Stiles asks incredulously. “Oh, god, please tell me how I’m just a dumb kid who has no idea about anything, who hasn’t spent the last year being miserable and in love with someone who had to move across the goddamn country to be away from him. Tell me how I’m just a fucking kid who hasn’t been risking his life for the last seven years since he managed to drag his best friend out one stupid night. Tell me how I’m just a fucking kid who hasn’t been taking care of everyone for as long as he can remember, who hasn’t experienced loss, and doesn’t know what a big bad place the world is. Please Derek, please, tell me how I’m just a dumb kid, this’ll be fun, this will be new. But you know what, don’t for a second think that I believe you, and god Derek, don’t for a second think I’m dumb enough to think you believe it.”  
        
“That’s not what I meant,” Derek mumbled pulling his hand through his hair.  
        
“No, you just meant that you know what’s better for me than I do,” Stiles said, a little less steady than his previous outburst.  Derek looked at him for a moment trying to read his expression, wanting to meet his eyes. A year ago, that’s all that it would’ve taken. Stiles would’ve been able to see that this distance was killing Derek more than it could’ve ever been effecting Stiles, physically undoing him, tearing him limb from limb every day, leaving him raw and barely able to keep going. Derek let the silence build, as he walked over to the chair on the other side of the room, taking a seat, and placing his head in his hands. Stiles started to walk toward him, then thought better of it. He took a seat on the floor, back against the wall and sighed heavily. He looked up, shook his head, working up to saying something, but just what was anyone’s guess.  
        
“I know that’s not what you meant,” Stiles started. Taking a quick look toward where Derek sat. “I know. I know.” He finished fishing a pill bottle out of his pocket and rattling around, before taking one out and swallowing it. Derek watched the whole thing intently, wondering if it was just the Ritalin or if Stiles had started on something new since he last saw him, it was a stand in for all the things he wanted to ask and didn’t have the right to know anymore.  
        
“I’m sorry,” Derek said, barely above a whisper, just loud enough for Stiles to hear. There was nothing left to say, except the words he’d been dying for Stiles to hear since everything, since the first night.  At that, Stiles stood up and walked directly in front of Derek, kneeling down in front of him, taking his hands.  
        
“I know,” he said clearly, strongly, emphasizing the syllables, pulling Derek’s hand across his cheek. “I don’t want you to be sorry. I’m not blameless in this.”  
  
“Stiles, you --,”  
  
“No, you got to say it. You got to say what you’ve been holding on to for the last year. Oh, no, don’t give me those eyes,” he said as Derek started to contradict him. “I was scared that night, it was the first big fight since – since, this,” he said motioning between the two of them. “I was scared and stupid and I would’ve put myself between any bullet coming at you. You told me not to follow, to call the pack and you know deal with my broken arm, and any other day I would’ve at least waited, but I was so scared they were ---,” he trails off looking down. “I shouldn’t have been there, and that’s not your fault.”  
  
“Stiles,” Derek said his words full of sympathy and sorrow and yet a bit incredulous. How could Stiles think that any part of this supernatural freak show was his fault.  
  
“Besides, I did try normal,” Stiles added smiling, hoping this will spark something in Derek and it does, if a mild light.  
  
“I know,” Derek said, immediately wanting to pull the words back. Stiles’s eyes grew twice the size, he stood up backing away a bit.  
  
“What do you mean, you know?” He asked, with his determined face. It was his you will not make it out of this room alive unless you tell me right now, I can wait until you die of starvation or old age eyes.  
  
“I came to Berkley earlier this year,” Derek started. “I saw you with the girl.” By the end of his confession, Stiles’s heart was beating faster than he would’ve thought possible, and Derek could sense the hope emanating out of his pores all cold sweats and maybes.  
  
“You, you --,” Stiles started waving a hand at Derek, it was the overcome stuttering that meant the younger man had thought he’d won. Unfortunately Derek wasn’t quite done yet.  
  
“I wasn’t going to talk to you, Stiles. I just, I just needed to see you, to see that you were okay -- to be near you.” Derek said quickly standing and moving further away from Stiles. At this point, they’d covered every corner of the small apartment moving away and closer to each other. Derek could feel Stiles deflate, his heart rate sputter but keep tempo, his eyes start to burn with the earlier rage. Eyes that – no, Derek probably shouldn’t be thinking about how hot rage looks on Stiles.  
  
“So you get to see me, when you need to, and I’m supposed to what? ‘Don’t follow,’ not have any clue where you are or if you’re okay” he said arms flailing and anger building.  
  
“No, it wa--,” Derek started.  
  
“NO,” Stiles shouted. He started looking back and forth around the apartment unsure where to go or stand or what to do, his anger leaving him confused and just angry. “No, no, I’m, I --,” and finally he looked at Derek, who was similarly stuck, stuck between wanting to push Stiles far enough, far enough that he’d get it, and wanting to fall down on his knees and take it all back. As if a light had flickered on, Stiles path became clear. “I’m done,” he said.  
  
There was nothing that could’ve prepared Derek for what came next as Stiles launched himself at the werewolf, crushing his lips, grabbing his arms, the kiss was rough and full of want, Derek was returning the affection moving to press Stiles against the wall before he even fully understood what had happened. The two only broke apart when the pressure became too much for Stiles’s lungs, panting, he took to Derek’s neck and reaching down clumsily to pull the other man’s shirt over his head, taking note that the abs and lines were all the same. Derek quickly followed suit, pulling Stiles shirt off as well, nibbling at his shoulder wanting to turn him around and paw at the claw marks. As if on cue, Stiles turned leaning back into Derek.  
  
When they remember this story, Stiles will think he won with the kiss, and in a lot of ways he did, but until this moment, Derek was still preparing to pull away. All of a sudden they fit back together perfectly. Stiles fiddles with his belt buckle, leaning into Derek, his head tilted slightly to the side as Derek sucks at the crook of his neck, reaching around to twist their hands together. They move as one, pushing and pulling, kissing and biting, smiling and moaning until they are just a mess of limbs and heat, loss and triumph, and the kind of fear that only takes hold when you have something truly worth losing. They lay there, arms and legs interlocked fingers twisting between each other’s, on the floor of Derek’s dingy apartment for what feels like forever.  
  
“Uhm, so --,” Stiles starts, but Derek leans in quickly capturing his mouth in a kiss. That will shut him up for now, and the rest, the rest will be figured out and pieced together later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "Scars" by Papa Roach. And a little obvious, eh? ::shrug::
> 
> Epilogue (of FLUFF ) next.


	4. This is Not the End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also also un-beta'd.

**September 3, 2027**

Stiles sits on the edge of the small bed in the oversized bedroom, staring down at the little girl. He can hear Derek moving around in the hallway, heading to the bedroom door.  
  
“Daddy, daddy the song,” the four year old begged looking up at Stiles.  
  
“I don’t think I know which song you’re talking about,” Stiles said teasing.  
  
“Uh huh, the song, Daddy,”  
  
“Hmm,” Stiles says pondering “ _This is the song that never ends, it just goes on and --,_ ” he starts.  
  
“No, Daddy,” she says sitting up and looking to the door. “Paaaaaapaaa, make him sing the right song,” she said her eyes pleading with Derek as he moved from his position against the door frame.  
  
“You know he never really listens to me Ellie,” Derek says placing a hand just between Stiles’s shoulder blades. “But, I do think it’s time for someone to go to sleep,” he offers. There are days, moments, like this when Stiles can’t quite understand how his life became so full, looking between Derek and Eleanor. How he could be tucking in and teasing a little girl with Derek’s eyes and his mother’s name, and a heart bigger than the two of theirs combined.  
  
“Pwease Daddy,” she says her eyes big. It had been three months since the day she snuck into their bedroom and saw Stiles playfully stumbling across the lyrics before leaning down to kiss Derek. Three months of the same three lines at bedtime, at least the girl had good taste.  
  
“ _Love it will not betray you, dismay or enslave you, it will set you free. Be more like the man you were made to be_ ,” Stiles starts, as she snuggles against her teddy bear, and Derek leans down to kiss the top of her head.  “ _There is a design, an enlightenment to cry, of my heart to see,_ ” Stiles finishes, pulling the blanket a little further up and giving her a kiss himself.  
  
“Mhmm,” she mutters sleepily. “ _The beauty of love is it was mints and.... bees_ ,” she finishes mumbling into her pillow.  
  
The two of them quietly make their way out of the room, leaving the door cracked a bit, and walk across the hall to their own bedroom.  
  
“Five minutes,” Derek says casually walking into the bathroom and coming out in only pajama bottoms, brushing his teeth...fangs... teeth.  
  
“Nope seven,” Stiles offers, pulling off his own shirt, and fiddling with his phone. He pulls up the stopwatch app and drops it down on their bed.  
  
“I can already hear her starting to stir, her heart beat’s rising,” Derek offers to prove his point.  
  
“Yeah but your wolfy senses aren’t taking into account the stubbornness she gets from her Papa. I’d go as high as 9 minutes” Stiles says smiling, grabbing a couple of books off his desk. “Have you seen my glasses?”  
  
“I’m not stubborn,” Derek says playing affronted. “I’m just always right,” he says smiling, at which Stiles laughs. They’ve made it past the fights, the pain, the fear, every once in awhile they’re a little nervous about being this comfortable. However, at some point over the last fifteen years, they decided they wouldn’t let themselves be afraid to live.  
  
“Yeah, yeah. Glas--,” Stiles starts pausing mid-sentence, picking up a case and heading over to the bed.  
  
“We probably shoul--,” Derek starts, but he’s cut off by Stiles.  
  
“Shouldn’t let her stay in here tonight, right? I’ve been thinking about it. I mean, she’s clearly just nervous about starting school next week. She’s already a bit young for her grade the attachment probably isn’t the best way to start off the whole school thing --,” he says pausing as if to consider what he’s saying. Derek starts to speak again, but Stiles has found his second wind. “But at the same time, I don’t see how it could hurt if we keep taking her back to her bed when she falls asleep. Also, we can set the boundary that after school starts she has to sleep in her own bed again. I don’t see this as a long-term problem,” he adds taking another breath. Derek just looks at him, waiting for him to finish the thought. “But maybe I’m just being a softy? I don’t know, I had to make the call on the second cinnamon bun last weekend. I think it’s your turn,” he says, huffing, and it’s Derek’s turn to Derek laugh.

“I think you’re right,” Derek starts, but is interrupted by the soft creak of their door opening. Ellie’s standing in the hallway, her right hand clutching the teddybear, her left hand tugging at her dark hair. Stiles takes a peek down at his cell phone, and does a silent fist pump.  
  
“Hey baby girl,” Derek says smiling and shoving Stiles’s papers and phone over at him.  
  
“I’m, uh,” she starts as she walks over and scurries up onto the bed between the two of them. “Teddy was very scares of the dark,” she offers. Laying the bear down next to her and curling into Derek’s side.  
  
“I bet he was,” Stiles says choking back a laugh. “I thought we talked about you protecting him from the dark,” Stiles says pulling his papers together and setting them on the table next to the bed.  
  
“Yeah,” she says emphatically sitting up. “And I told him that, Daddy, But he was so scares and he wanted to come in here, because Papa’s bigger and stronger,” she finished tightening her grip on Derek. Derek gave Stiles a teasing smile, that said favorite, a nod to the ongoing competition between the two of them.  
  
“Scared, sweetheart,” Derek says emphasizing the D. “What’s Teddy going to do when he has to spend the whole day without either you or me to protect him next week?” Derek asks, broaching the taboo subject. She doesn’t answer his question directly, shaking her head into his side.  
  
“Maybe you can teach him to be strong, and next week, he won’t be so afraid of the dark?” Stiles offers. She nods a bit and reaches out her hand over the teddy bear to grab Stiles’s palm. To which he shoots Derek a look of triumph. “Alright, miss,” Stiles says with his serious face on. “You can stay here with Papa until you fall asleep, and you can even have a whole half of the bed. I have to go downstairs and do some work. But we’re going to put you back in your bed tonight, so you’ll wake up there in the morning, okay” Ellie’s hand tightens around Stiles’s for a bit as she nods, before letting go and scooting Teddy over in the bed. Stiles walks around to Derek’s side of the bed, leaning down to capture his lips in a quick kiss.  
  
“It shouldn’t be too long,” he offers. “Stay up for me?” He asks. To which Derek nods quietly looking down at Ellie whose breath was already starting to even, she’ll be completely asleep in the next couple of minutes. Stiles takes his papers and heads down to the dining room table, turning on a light. “I love you,” he says plainly, before setting into the work in front of him, knowing that wherever he was those words would always reach the the set of perked werewolf ears upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is the first part of this series. Hope you liked it!
> 
> I have a few one-shots that take place *around* this fic that I'll be uploading over the next week or so, as well as two longer fics that I haven't finished quite yet. The first of the two is set around the time of this epilogue and the second is about 11 more years down the line.
> 
> Oh the song is "Sigh No More" by Mumford & Sons.


End file.
